


bring the wicked down upon the bitter thirsting ground

by oncewewerezombies



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Meteorstuck, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, references to Canon typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-10-06 03:54:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10325048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oncewewerezombies/pseuds/oncewewerezombies
Summary: Be THE HIGHBLOOD==> Tell that motherfucker to kneel==> TELL HIM TO MOTHERFUCKING KNEEL==> Get twelve shades of shit kicked the fuck outta you==> NOW SIT YOUR MOTHERFUCKING WEAK ASS DOWN, BITCH





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HaroThar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaroThar/gifts).



> "If you choose this one, I'd like gratuitous hurt/comfort, preferably with Gamzee the one who was hurt and is being comforted! If you've read my fic, Somewhere Along in the Bitterness, and you want to do something off of that verse, I would LOVE that! Otherwise, I'm down for anything really!" - HaroThar.
> 
> \-- Hope you enjoyed this, even if I couldn't fit it around your fic. Which is very good, by the way!

How much shit hurts is your overwhelming thought, cancelling out even the righteous whisperings of the Lord.

You’re not precisely motherfucking certain when shit went sideways from the plan that the Messiahs were shouting down your thinkpan’s auricular clots, about how all this shit was meant to go down, GO DOWN WICKED, but it was probably about the point where the bluebro didn’t kneel. Not only did a motherfucker NOT kneel, but a motherfucker had pretty much thrown an entire vat at you. You’d known that the hoofbeast inclined brother was strong. Like who didn’t know, he made kind of a big fucking fuss about it. Strongest motherfucker there was, most blue, most fucking traditional, all hissy and pursed-mouth prudish with his accusations of how you weren't being a proper, TRUE SUBJUGGULATOR...and look what he'd motherfucking UP AND DONE when you tried it all out on him. The way he'd MADE VOICE on what he'd always been DESIRING OF YOU.

You hadn’t known he was that strong.

Shit. 

Mis-fucking-calculation.

There'd been some kinda hushed discussion between him and kittysis, although not every syllable from her could have been described as hushed as opposed to his low rumble, and then they'd left you here in the wreck of glass and hideous blinded creature-husk. Slime. Not even as though it was useful slime, nothing to make miracles with, just rank with dead and corpse and you're just the second dead thing caught up in its viscous embrace. You're breathing. You think. You're pretty motherfucking sure that your airsacks are lifting and inhaling-exhaling but you think your husk is leaking out purple to mix with the sticky goop you're lying in. You can't get up. You're a puppet with its strings cut and the Messiahs shriek, rattling around your pan like stingcritters whining their way to soft flesh and munch happy target of blood. They're telling you all sorts of things. Useless. _Disgrace_. How dare you motherfucking lie there and do nothing, not do as they command. Your grasping fronds flop in useless ways and you struggle to push, to claw your way out from under the body lying on top of you, stinking of a deceasement decasweeps past and ugh. You can't do this.

Fuck up. Motherfucking _fuck up_ , no wonder there ain't anyone who's kind proper to you, no motherfucker who has _time_ to listen to your discourse, can't even get one simple thing like CULLING ONE BLUEBLOODED MOTHERFUCKER right, you've failed. Failure. You motherfucking failure, you piece of any-troll-ready-and-willing cullbait, you. Useless. Not even fit to MOTHERFUCKING SERVE, ain't fit to do nothing.

You're not sure as to how long you're lying there, reminding yourself of all the ways in which you've never accomplished one motherfucking useful thing (you ain't even ever managed to ride your one wheel device proper, what the motherfuck is WRONG WITH YOU) but you're disturbed by foot falls. A motherfucking gasp, desperate inhale of breath, maybe of horror. You wanna push up and get out from under the lusus-similarity corpse you're lying under so you can go on about your MOTHERFUCKING MIRTHFUL BUSINESS but the damn thing is _heavy_ and you are so _motherfucking tired_ , you're so done with all this shit. You just want to rest.

"Fucking - alright, calm down, it wasn't as though the sweaty blood-obsessed asslicker didn't actually say that he - fuck, I didn't think it would be this bad, I didn't - I should have come _fucking sooner_ , fuck me and all of my fucking time wasting quibbling about stupid _shit_ like aliens and their _stupid notions of pranks_ \- fucking bucketspill waste of fucking space - ok, Gamzee? Gamzee, can you hear me? Stick your fucking useless grasper up, you nookfondling idiot, or _something_ , fuck, _fuck_ , you're _bleeding_ \- what do I _do_ -"

Huh. Oh look at that, who else is making exceptions to your understanding of their strength as Karkat heaves up the pickled corpse on top of you with muscle you didn't know he had and shoves it to the side, and you think he's. He's _crying_ , pink streaking down his cheeks and you don't know - you don't know what to do with that. The burst of agony from having everything freed up and able to breathe makes you yowl and swipe like the beast you _feel like_ on the inside but he catches your hand by the wrist to hold it off you clawing gouges into his face and presses his hand against your cheek. Your eyes are hurting, they _hurt_ , your whole motherfucking thinkpan feels like it's gonna motherfucking _explode_ , and you want to make _him_ hurt, you want to MAKE THEM ALL MOTHERFUCKING SUFFER, GET THAT MOTHERFUCKING RIGHTEOUS REPENTANCE ON, MOTHERFUCKERS, and maybe that'll make it stop, _make it stop_ , make this shrieking discourse in your head simply cease -

" _Shoosh_."

What.

Everything in your pan skids to a halt, comes crashing around you as his warm, rough hand caresses your cheek and his other hand holds a finger to his mouth, motherfucker's oculars as serious as Scripture, as he fucking.

This bold ass motherfucker right here, he just goes on and.

"Shooooosh, shoosh, shoosh, Gamzee, shoosh."

Paps you. Shooshes you. Like it ain't even a thing. You oughtta snarl and rip his grasping frond and all its wriggly treacherous digits off at the motherfucking hinge, use your fangs. Get bloody. Paint your face with a whole new motherfucking shade, but eyes wide and dimming, you just. You shoosh. You go quiet. And when you go quiet, your fleshly husk recalls you again to how much you've done damage to it, what you've allowed someone to do to it through virtue of being unprepared for how shit was going to go down. (you could have sworn that there was only one way for this whole thing to motherfucking go, and this had not been it, you're offbalance, you're motherfucking _thrown_ -) How a blueblooded motherfucker went and got his hurt on you, instead of the other way around. You would have finished it quick - for his faithful service, his motherfucking loyalty, you had been planning on making it quick. Kinder than some of the other things you could have done, that were being yelled at you to be done. Even though you can still hear the call of the Messiahs, all rattling through your pan, you find yourself not listening to them. Ain't a thing that can get through this feeling.

You go all wiggly and pacified, you can feel yourself slipping down to something like calm. It's a motherfucking miracle and you find yourself just staring at him, waiting for him to get all up in your grill with his touch on again. All fuzzy as a baabeast and as peaceable as one too.

"We're going to have to _move you_ before we can even think about bandaging any of this, fuck me _gently sideways with a whirling sawtooth blade_ , right in my fucking nook. Ok. Ok." Karkat takes a deep breath, and you're still fluffy on the inside of your pan from his hand still rubbing at your cheek, pressing in against the orthosplane of your cheek, against that structure underlying your skin. Pressing on your hide, rubbing in circles to make your pan go soft, so soft all inside and out and you make a sound and he shooshes you, almost absent. Obviously thinking of logistics and the practical side of shit as to get you out of the corpsejuice you're lying in. And all these pieces of glass; can't forget those. "Just breathe. You're going to be ok. It's all." He sniffs, and wipes at his face with the folded over cuff of his sleeve, patting up those pink tears (HEINOUS MOTHERFUCKING BLASPHEMOUS) and paps you with the damp cloth before you can get a head of heated water vapour under your belt to get up and smack him, the way some part of you still wants to. "Going to be ok."

His speechifying continues, hoarse and motherfucking shouted out all the way to his chirpbox, and you kind of grey out. You may be a motherfucking highblood and sturdy as all fucking get out, but hey. Even you can only take so much. It's when a serious motherfucker is looking down at you through cracked shades and nodding, listening to Karkat as he skirts imagined dangerous shapes with the curves and exclamatory movements of his fronds. Pointing, explaining how shit is gonna go and voice going stern at the edges as to make that prudish motherfucker _sweat_ over the indignity of it all, and you kind of want to laugh, almost do in rasping breath before he goes to - he PICKS YOU UP - _MOTHERFUCKER it HURTS_ -

And it's a gracious motherfucking mercy beholden to no Messiah or Lord or Angel that you got your know on of as to that's when you black out. Quicker and cleaner than sopor, just snap and gone.

When you wake up, you're. You're. It takes a motherfucking moment, you gotta get your thinkpan, your braincase around shit and it takes you a gasp or aeration sackful of air or so before you can manage cognition. You're lying on something soft and comfortable even if your body is complaining of hurt in every grubleg width of itself, and there's a weight on your stomach. It's warm. You can just lift the heaviness of your head and it's...Karkat. Why's he here? Shit that was so urgent, so immediate, right up onto the point where you got papped, it's. Well, it ain't _gone_ gone but it's motherfucking. It's almost quiet in your head for the first time since you stopped eating sopor, from when that motherfucking video had been sent to you to disgrace your oculars and ruin your faith. That shitheel human... 

A voice grabs you from the blackening spiral and you look up at the source of it. He's the only one in there with you. Karkat. Who papped you, shooshed you from holy rage. And here. Here you are. 

"You're awake."

"Uh." You take a moment to think, then you nod careful as though maybe if you're careful enough, your head won't bobble straight off your cartilaginous columnar support. "...yeah." Your body feels tickly, itchy and you scratch at the blankets and Karkat hisses, grabs at your fronds and cups them in his. Warm. He's so motherfucking warm. You are all amazement and you just stare at him as he fusses. Tucks the blankets back down and settles you like a cluckbeast lusus, all true to life but not quite as feathery. No one's acted as concerned about you like this in ever as you can remember.

"Don't do that, you'll disturb the bandages. You were. Kind of a fucking mess when Zahhak picked you up - what the fuck were you even thinking. I just. _Gamzee_. How much thinking can you even do with that fucked up pan, because right now it doesn't seem like very fucking much. I don't even want to know what the fuck you thought were doing, you disgrace." Rough as his words are, as they always have been, his hands are gentle where they hold onto yours. Stroking over your knuckles. "Fuck, I thought you were dead."

"Felt like it could have been a thing that almost happened," you venture, swallowing. He notices and there's a cylindrical silicate container full of water in your grasp almost immediate. He helps you drink, tip it to your mouth and steady it and you're buzzing. This can't be real. No one takes this kind of care with you. Something mutters on how you don't deserve it, failure as you motherfucking are, but he's _still there_ and he _stays_. Like he can't even hear all the words swirling around your pan, muted for now but you know they're gonna arch up again. They just gonna. He puts it down as you finish, careful clink of silicate substitute meeting surface greeting your auricular clots. "Motherfucker, things got...real hazy. Got all shit twisted up in my pan, a brother can't even begin to say as to how much there was going on."

"...you know what? We're going to discuss this entire shitfucking episode of utter douchetastic imaginings rattling around the empty spaces of your thinkpan and their shameful, hideous conclusions, both actual and potential _at length_ -" His voice is soaring before it quiets and he slumps. He's gotten hold of your hands again and he's squeezing, squeezing tight. Looking at you as though _you're_ the one as is gonna slip away. Oh. _Oh_. Everything is a maze and a mystery, it's miracles, and you just can't even find the beginning of a thread to pull on. "Later. When you stop leaking like a fucking inflatable party sack that's been rolled through a field of razors. Seriously. I can't even ask you what you were thinking, dullglobes, because I know you fucking _weren't._ "

He talks like all those messages as you got saved on your husktop, sweeps of talking with this grey texted motherfucker, harsh and pointed as nails but you can hear the care underneath like the most secret and still of miracles. Your best friend. And now, what is this now? You're feeling vulnerable, and there's an edge riding the back of your teeth like you wanna bite something but his voice doesn't rasp on the edge to sharpen it up. No. It makes it better, makes you want to calm, makes you wanna... You ain't got words for what it makes you want.

Something you're pretty motherfucking sure you ain't got no deserve on of.

Still want it.

"No, brother." You give him soft answer and it doesn't turn away his wrath, he just stares down at you like he can't even motherfucking _believe_ what he's got his gaze on of. You offer him up something like a sleepy smile, and you can feel that care in him down to your motherfucking bones, even if he ain't said one word any other motherfucker would think of as comforting. You let him talk on and on, and he gets hype, gets fierce, to the point where you are actually starting to get a little motherfucking concerned, and you lift your hand - bandaged, you note - and touch his face. The look on his face is worth the effort and the agony of moving your grasper, and you grin a little before you let it drop back to the snuggleplanes. "Shhhh. A motherfucker will heal, just take some time. We got time, ain't we?"

You don't. None of you do. You can feel that in your bones, but a question that you put innocent voice on like that to make him melt, relax under your palm as you smooth your thumb over his check in clumsy sweeps, that's worth the lie. Messiahs' voices nagging at you, one all snarl and bile and an odd honk or two, some other motherfucking voice that murmurs how disgusting you are - reminds you of something, can't put your finger on it quite but that one, that one's fading out - but looking at Karkat, you ain't mind it. Ain't mind them. You think you know what this is, you know what you want this to be but you don't want to say the word before he does. In case you're wrong. You've been wrong before; different quadrant, but you'd been sure then too and been wrong. 

"...Sollux bought us _some_ time, it's not like we're going to be out of reach of Jack forever," Karkat bites out, like the words are his own precious enemies. Like admitting that things just maybe might not wind up terrible is something hard. You guess all of you might have a little space in the Game, a pause. Ain't the end. Something about some motherfucking jot or tittle fucked up your ending, which is why you're all in this space now. Before now, you've always felt as though you were being guided somehow, pushed down a path and now. Now? You feel loose and in the wind, like there ain't no motherfucking chain leashing your walk stubs to anybody's path and you ain't know what to do with that feeling. "...Gamzee? _Gamzee_." 

Karkat brings you back to looking at him with urgent tone, and you shrug at him. 

"A brother be wicked tired, Karbro," you offer, because you don't know how to put voice on the things squirming through your pan. He looks at you sharp, like he can tell you're keeping something back before his chin moves up and down jerkily. Irritated, not accepting what you said in the pusher of it, but willing to let it slide. For now.

"Considering how much body you've got to fucking rebuild, I'm not surprised. Everything's still attached at least, which you don't fucking deserve, moron. But you're pretty much a cocoon monster of bandages right now. I think we've run out of fibrestring to feed into the alchemizer, so I hope no one needs any clothes in the next one and a half sweeps." His expression is sour and you'd laugh, except you're pretty sure that your thoracic struts would protest that something bitter. Instead you just let the corners of your mouth draw up, and let yourself cuddle back into the comfortnubs propping your braincase up. It's nice. Whatever else, you feel cared for. It's weird, but you like it. "Go the fuck to sleep, asshole, if you're so tired. We can talk about. Everything. When you wake up."

"Everything, motherfucker?" you drawl, and chance a wiggle of your eyebrows. His shoulders arch and you can just see him puff. Just the same as an agitated spinefish. "Like how you shooshed this brother _so nice_ -" There's a palm over your mouth before you can say more, and you chuckle silently behind it as his mouth works. Open, closed, open, garbling silent words of obvious outrage and protest that never quite get out. 

" _Shut up_. And go to sleep, nookmunch." He hesitates, then nods sharply, pulling his hand away. "Yeah. We'll...talk about that too. As well as the innumerable ways in which you fucked up - and I'll explain how everyone else fucked everything up too. There's plenty of shame and resentment to spread around."

"Promise?" You weren't total fabrication when you said you were tired. You can feel yourself fading out now, but it's softer and gentler a way into unconsciousness than the last one you'd tried. Yeah, never afuckingain if you can avoid it. 

"Fine. Fucking wriggler. I promise, we'll talk about it when you wake up."

"Long as it's a promise." A couple more blinks before you fade out. His frond is warm around yours and you think this time, if you say something more than what you've said, that this time you're really gonna. You think. You're pretty sure you maybe just garnered a moirail. _Motherfucking miracles_. You've got things besides that to think about when you wake up - a video, Tavbro and that spiderbitch, Messiahs' instructions hissing through the inner coils of your pan but - right now, you're gonna sleep. And when you wake up, maybe you'll have a moirail to help you sort shit out.

It's a comforting thought to pass out on.


End file.
